


everything

by PaintedVanilla



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dirty Talk, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mild Painplay, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 14:37:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18122291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaintedVanilla/pseuds/PaintedVanilla
Summary: “You said you wanted to do everything, Crowley, and I think you just provided me with a wonderful list of whateverythingis.”





	everything

**Author's Note:**

> oof ouch uhhh i never write smut and im not very good at it please dont make fun of me uhhhhh that is all enjoy

It was bad enough Crowley had to have a conversation about how he’s never _done this_ before— even worse that he had to find out Aziraphale _has._ The list of names was so long, Aziraphale lost count, which made Crowley tremble with a strange mix of envy and wrath.

He tried not to think about that; about how other people throughout history have had Aziraphale suck love bites into their neck with such little shame. And really, he’s _so_ shameless about it, Crowley thinks to himself. He should at least be a _little_ bashful about not practicing chastity, and yet here he is, with Crowley pinned down to the bed like it’s nothing, littering his neck with bruises.

Crowley squirms, trying to keep his mind at ease; trying to keep stupid, desperate little noises from escaping his mouth. Aziraphale presses his thigh between Crowley’s legs, and he all but thrashes, letting out an embarrassing whine as he grinds against him.

“What do you want, my dear?” Aziraphale breathes against him, and it’s not _fair_ that he sounds so composed and collected when he has Crowley in a state like this. “Your little noises are so endearing, but they’re not an answer. Tell me what you want.”

Crowley whimpers. “ _You_.”

“You have me,” Aziraphale says. “I’m right here.”

“Not what I mean,” Crowley whines.

“I know, dear boy,” Aziraphale says. “What do you want me to do to you?”

Crowley moans, the mere mental image of Aziraphale pleasuring him almost enough to push him over the edge, which terrifies him.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and it’s tender and stern at the same time as he presses his thigh a little firmer between his legs.

Crowley hisses, scrambling desperately for words; he can’t seem to remember any of them. _“Aziraphale.”_

“That’s not an answer,” the angel teases, and Crowley makes the most embarrassing noise. “What do you want me to do to you? Tell me.”

“ _Everything,_ ” Crowley says weakly. _“_ Everything _— fuck,_ Aziraphale…”

Aziraphale hums. “Well, I suppose if you ask nicely.”

Crowley cranes his neck up and kisses him to hide a sob, because the last thing he wants is for Aziraphale to hear him make a noise like that.

Aziraphale indulges him for only a moment, before he breaks the kiss and smiles. “Your brevity becomes you, my dear,” he says warmly, and Crowley can’t even remember what brevity _means._

Aziraphale lets go of his wrists, and immediately Crowley reaches up and pulls him back down to kiss him again. Aziraphale doesn’t indulge him at all, this time; he breaks the kiss and pinches his thigh, not enough to truly hurt but enough to warn him that the next one will.

“None of that,” Aziraphale says as Crowley’s head falls back onto the pillow.

“I want to kiss you,” Crowley pleads, and he hates how wrecked he already sounds and they haven’t even undressed yet, but he can’t help himself.

“I have better things in mind for you,” Aziraphale says, his fingers moving to begin unbuttoning Crowley’s shirt.

They undress, at first by hand, but it’s hard to tell who miracles away whatever is left as Crowley pulls the angel back into another kiss. He’s half expecting to be reprimanded again, but instead he’s met with a roll of Aziraphale’s hips and he moans, loud and high, much to his embarrassment.

“Angel,” Crowley breathes, knowing if he tries to say his name, he’s going to hiss and embarrass himself further. It’s taking every ounce of self control to keep himself put together as it is, and it’s barely working. He’s so close, _too_ close, struggling to keep himself from dissolving into a whimpering puddle under Aziraphale’s fingertips. He can’t imagine how it’s going to feel when—

Aziraphale wraps a hand around his cock and strokes him once, twice, and Crowley shouts and comes messily into his hand.

Aziraphale is startled for a moment; he doesn’t move, even though Crowley is writhing underneath him.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispers, his face hot. “I’m sorry, Aziraphale, I’ve never done this with another person. I tried, I— I wanted this to last longer, I wanted us to— _oh,”_

He whines, canting his hips up as Aziraphale strokes his softening cock. It still feels intoxicating, and Crowley leans into the touch, even though it’s almost too much. He’s overstimulated, and the attention almost stings, and he hates to say he’s _enjoying_ it.

Aziraphale repeats the motion, teasing him back to hardness quicker than any human would be capable of. He rubs his thumb against the slit, and Crowley shudders, pushing himself off the bed and propping himself up on his elbows.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, desperate. “I— I’ll last longer this time. I won’t mess it up.”

“You haven’t messed anything up,” Aziraphale murmurs, taking note of Crowley’s reaction to the overstimulation. “In fact, I think I like this better than what I had planned.”

Crowley is hardly listening to him anymore; he’s lost, dazed, struggling to keep himself from falling back onto the mattress and coming a second time.

“Angel,” he whimpers. “Angel, _ssstop,_ I’m— I’m gonna—”

“I know,” Aziraphale says; he eases Crowley back down so he’s laying flat again. “You look beautiful, my dear. Come for me.”

Crowley shudders, moaning his name as he does, comes for the second time in just a few short minutes. He’s so sensitive as it washes over him, his toes curling as he bucks up into Aziraphale’s hand.

His face is burning as he recovers, laying flat on his back and panting while Aziraphale miracled away his mess.

“I’m _sssorry_ ,” Crowley whines. “I didn’t mean to, I—”

Aziraphale shushes him; he gives Crowley’s cock a few more strokes as it softens again, enjoying the sounds it pulls from him. He lays his hands on his hips, stroking his thumbs over the protruding bone. “Nothing to apologize for.”

“I’m _sorry!”_ Crowley exclaims. “I wanted this to last longer. This has never happened before, I—”

“Before,” Aziraphale muses, tracing patterns with his thumbs, endlessly patient. “I thought you said you’d never done this before.”

Crowley blushes furiously. “I _haven’t.”_

“You touch yourself,” Aziraphale concludes, savoring the mental image. Crowley whines, embarrassed over a multitude of things, and embarrassed even further when the sensation caused his cock to twitch in half hearted interest.

“What do you think about?” Aziraphale asks; he takes Crowley’s hand and guides it to his cock, which was slowly rehardening.

Crowley whimpers, wrapping his fingers around his erection. _“You.”_

Aziraphale hums, satisfied with the answer as Crowley begins stroking himself off. He moans, overstimulated and intoxicated by the feeling; every stroke stings deliciously.

Aziraphale leans in and kisses him. “Tell me what you think about, my dear.”

“I already did,” Crowley hisses.

“Details,” Aziraphale mutters. “What do you want me to do to you, Crowley? What do you want to do to me?”

“I want you to fuck me,” Crowley moans, working himself frantically. “I want you to shove my face into the mattress and properly _fuck_ me. I want you to fuck me in the back room at your shop or at the desk or—or in the Bentley, oh _God, yes,_ I want you to fuck me in the Bentley. I want to ride you. I want you to fuck my face. I want to fuck your thighs, I want—” he whines, blushing even harder, “—I want you to make love to me, Aziraphale. I want— I want— oh, _Christ—”_

Aziraphale shushes him again, endlessly endeared. “I know,” he says warmly, running his hands up and down Crowley’s sides. “Come for me.”

 _“No,”_ Crowley protests miserably, though it’s clear he wasn’t going to be able to stop himself. “I want this to _last_ , I—”

“It will last,” Aziraphale promises him. “You said you wanted to do everything, Crowley, and I think you just provided me with a wonderful list of what _everything_ is.”

He kisses Crowley soundly, but it only lasts a moment before Crowley breaks it with a sob as he comes, shuddering as Aziraphale strokes him through it.

“It hurts,” Crowley whimpers. “It _hurts,_ Aziraphale don’t—  _don’t stop.”_


End file.
